


Powerless

by Thisisentertaining



Category: Original Work
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, First Person, Human Experimentation, Kinda, Manipulation, May be a while before I'm done, Slavery, Very Slight Romance, original idea, super power school, super powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thisisentertaining/pseuds/Thisisentertaining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm sure you're going into this with all kinds of assumptions and ideas, the by products of other stories and hints from all the tags and whatever. You're probably right about some of them. You're probably wrong about some of them too. I have no clue what exactly you're thinking, and I don't particularly care. This is my story, you're here to learn about me, not the other way around. So yeah, my story might be a little cliche, (ooh, a superhero school how very Sky High of you), but it's kinda different too (experimentation and slavery?). If you wanna hear all about it, come on in. If not, see ya, wouldn't want to be ya. (Actually thats a lie, cause you're probably sitting on your computer or phone in a nice warm house and I'm here, but whatever). </p>
<p>First person superhero original story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unintelligent

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is kinda an experiment with a new writing voice. I hope you like it!

I am so failing this test.

Seriously, this isn't like when your annoying friends say, 'oh I'm definitely failing this test' and up with a 97. I am completely bombing it. I'm halfway convinced that a third of these words don't exist. A small sigh slips past my lips, my eyes instinctively searching left and right, not that it would help. The testing room is pure white, no posters, windows, not even a clock to help. Not that a clock would help, but at this point I'm mostly complaining so that you can see how pathetic my situation is. Is it working?

I can't even look at any one else' test, there's at least three feet of space between desks, and little blinds set up on either side. That's right, whoever designed this room had to have been some kind of dungeon master from the dark ages, a master of hopelessness and torture. With yet another sigh--I think it’s the 10th this class--I turn back to my test and try to make sense of the gibberish that was question 23. Nope. Not a clue. Rolling my eyes, I fill in a random bubble, just to have something to turn in. I figure as long as I do that I have a 1 in 4 chance of getting it right, so I always fill something in. C. I always put C (Spoiler alert: this test so far has 18 Cs).

Question 24 isn't looking any better. I grit my teeth at the sound of scratching pencils around me, glaring at Calypse smirking in the seat next to mine, though her eyes are firmly locked on the back of the head of the brainiac in front of her. Probably reading his mind to get all of the answers. The kid behind her, Cyrus, is looking at her back intently, his eyes glowing as he looks through her body to the paper. I turn back quickly as his concentrated look turns into a leer. Okay, maybe not all the way through her then. Gross.

Randolph has his force shield up to keep people from peeking at his paper, though I'm not entirely sure why he would bother. I wouldn't exactly consider him worth copying personally. Though I suppose if I were him I would be doing the same thing if Crane kept on stretching his neck across the aisle. Of course, now Crane is just doing it to the kid in front of him, but honestly Randolph would probably be the better option. Wanta took a page from Crane’s book and had changed her neck into a giraffe's a while back, but I’m pretty sure that it’s unbalancing her human body because she keeps almost falling out of her chair. Clair's torso is invisible so that her idiot of a superstrength boyfriend behind her can cheat. Every once in a while papers went flying or disappeared as Zari or Zayne utilized their telekinesis and teleportation. 

I glare at them all, whatever.

24\. C

I know that I can't exactly complain about it. After all, using your powers to cheat is just as much part of these tests as actually knowing the information. The super geniuses know the stuff, obviously, they were going to be the next investors of the death ray or cure cancer or whatever. The telepaths try to read their minds, and the geniuses try to keep them out. It’s as much a game of trying to cheat as it is to not get cheated on.

Crap. 25. C

I know what you’re thinking, you're thinking now is about the time I'm gonna tell you my power, and you'll get a front row seat to see me save the day. Or, at least my GPA. Well, think again. This is not the part of the story where I tell you what amazing gift has landed me in this classroom of freaks. Mostly because I don't have one. That's right, no special powers. Why am I here then, you ask? Because when it comes to me, no one else does either.

Wait... what? What is that even supposed to mean? You know what, strike that last sentence. It made sense in my head, but now... you know whatever.

Hey, I actually remember this one. 26. A

Anyway, what I mean is that no one else' powers work on me. At all. Like, it’s not like it's just the mind readers who can't read me or whatever. Cyrus can't see through me, I can walk right through Randolph's force field. The only way I know that Clair's torso is invisible is because her boyfriend keeps looking at her back and writing answers. None of the shape shifters can turn into me and I always see them in their original form. So I guess I don’t know that Wanta has a giraffe neck, but she does it every test so I’m pretty sure this monster is no exception. No matter what they do Zari and Zayne can't move or teleport anything I'm touching.

I've beaten speedsters in a race. Once I watched a kid with super strength break through five cement walls without breaking a sweat, the come at me and hit me square in the stomach will all of his strength. It hurt less than that time one of the genius kids hit me cause I beat him on a test. Not this subject of course.

27\. C

One kid's only power was glowing, and no matter how bright he was, I only saw a dark room. They can shoot at me with lasers, sonic bursts, and fire and I never burn. Their ice powers don't make me shiver. Once a healer stayed up with me all night, but I'd still had a broken arm.

Sometimes I really hated my "powers", the fact that I was immune to everything. Like now. If I’m going to fail I really wish I could drag one of them with me.

28\. C

A loud clatter beaks me of my thoughts and I instinctively jerk around to the sound, though no one else so much as looks up. Hipe glares when our eyes met, angry that she can’t hypnotize me into giving her the answers. Ha, as if.

29 was either B or D. I'll go with B

Of course there are other times I hate my particular brand of powerlessness, though that typically centers on the fact that I'm the first they've discovered with my powers, so there's a lot of experimentation. A lot of specialized tests. It's worse too because none of the super-geniuses that work here can study me without their brain turning into mush as they fall prey to my anti-powers. So my fate is in the hands of normal geniuses. Yeah, not much fun.

30 through 37 all C. Crap.

And there aren't exactly a lot of those in supply here. See, I bet I know what you're thinking. You probably have all these assumptions about who I am and what I'm like and what the setting of all this is, and bla bla bla. You're probably right about some of it. But I can tell you one thing you were thinking that you're wrong about: this isn't some story about some kid going through some kind of magical super hero high school where despite having odd powers he's going to be the star hero valedictorian homecoming king whatever. You're wrong, you're so wrong. 

38\. A

See, I may have said class and GPA and whatever, but this isn't a school; its a training facility. Small nuance, huge difference. We aren't going through classes to help us in the real world after graduation, where we'll all get a job and become heroes and villains or whatever. No, we're being trained. Like guard dogs or trick ponies. The only thing waiting for us at graduation is an auction sending us to the highest bidder, the rich and elite who want a powered pet.

Like, imagine if Bruce Wayne had been really lazy and instead of becoming Batman he used his riches to buy an already trained Robin to save Gotham. That's us. You just had to hope that you ended up with Batman and not Lex Luther. (Yes, I know that's Superman's villain, but he's super rich and could actually afford one of us. Joker would... I don't know kill people, blow stuff up, make lame jokes and puns, cause general chaos)

Or at least, I hope to end up with Batman. All of the other kids here have been in training since birth and are as brainwashed as they could be. Morals don't bother crossing their mind, they just hope for someone who'll give them three square meals and a comfy bed. It's not their fault. You would go along with it too if that's all you'd ever known.

39\. B

How am I still so aware you ask? Well for one, I haven't been here nearly that long. There are various powered people--the trainers refer to us as Vires, which is apparently something in Latin--in hospitals all over the world whose whole power is the ability to sense other Vire. Vire is the plural of Vires. I don’t know how adding an ‘s’ makes it singular, just roll with it. Anyway, when they sense a Vire they either switch out the baby’s or make something up about IDS and the kids are shipped off here. Their powers didn't work on me (see above if you're confused why) and I would have probably gone my whole life in ignorant peace if dear old dad hadn't been rich enough to own a couple of Vires himself.

At first even he didn't know, but all it took was one party where a friend with an empath showed up to ruin everything. Poor guy flipped when he couldn't read anything from me. Like, full blown panic attack. It had never happened to him before. As far as I know it hasn’t happened to anyone since. I have no clue how the facility here got news of it, but next thing I knew a couple of freaks were breaking through my walls and dragging me here. It almost hadn't worked, they had been so used to relying on their powers. The speedster who was supposed to grab me and run had been too slow, and the person who came to control my mind and make me compliant failed horribly and I screamed the whole time. Dad had shot one of them in the leg.

But it hadn't been enough and I'd been forcibly "enrolled" here. Seven years later than everyone else.

40\. B

I mean, that's still pretty young. I'm not going to say that I'm not brainwashed at least a little. I totally am, (does it count if you know you've been brainwashed) but not nearly as bad as anyone else. It also probably helps that the telepaths can't get into my head and leave behind thoughts I think are my own.

41\. B

Sometimes I entertain the idea of hoping that my dad would be waiting for me on auction day, checkbook in hand. But then I would remember the younger servants always hanging in the background in my fuzzy memories of his house, flinching anytime someone neared. As good a father I remember him as, I wouldn't want to be his Vires.

Well it had been good while it lasted. 4 in a row right wasn't bad. 42. C

So yeah, now you know it all. My whole story in all the sordid details. To this point at least. My group turns 17 this year, which means this spring is auction (we go at 17 so that we go to work right before turning 18, around the age normal kids are getting jobs. Less suspicious). So, there'll probably be a lot more story to tell pretty soon. If I go to auction at least. They may decide to keep me another year or so to continue their experiments. They may never sell me. That thought alternates as my greatest hope and my biggest fear.

I don't know what'll be out there, but I keep on going back to the thought that it could never be worse than this. Then I remember that things can always get worse.

I know 43 isn’t C, but that’s all I got. If is out then go for D, unless D is ‘all of the above’, in which case never do D. 

A small ding sounds in the room, followed by a series of curses. Five minutes left on the test.

Sorry, but I need to focus now. At this point, it's desperation answering. Reading through the question and only answering if I know that I've got the answer.

4 and a half minutes later I stand with the rest of the class to turn in the test, already feeling the ghost pains of punishment as I place the paper in the pile.

Total test questions: 100. Total Cs: 83.

Crap. Oh well, at least it'll be auction soon. Nothing can be worse than this.


	2. Undermined

My first hint of just how badly I did on that test is the shower. I know what you’re thinking. Oh, that must be code word for something, yada yada. Nope. I mean the literal showers, like to get clean in. See, everything single part of life here depends on your attitude. Good little puppets got rewarded with comfy beds, fluffy blankets, pillows, the best clothes, ect. When you’re less puppet, more Pinocchio (like me) you got a cot and whatever the good children wore down or grew out of. If I behaved long enough I could potentially get the memory foam and fluffy comforters, but that isn’t going to happen any time soon so it doesn’t really matter.

Most stuff is more dependent on your day to day performance than overall attitude. Like, did you do a good job the day before? Congratulations, you get the last training slot and can sleep in. Oh, you acted up? Sorry, 5 A.M alarm for you. Oh, you messed up in training? Looks like it’s nothing but plain oatmeal and undressed salad for you. The day that I beat that kid genius on the test I got the most amazing burger, heaped with cheese and bacon and grilled onions and everything else that’s right with the world. It came with fries that were really crispy on the outside and so fluffy inside. It was the best day ever, I behaved for a whole week after that, hoping for another. (I didn’t get one, but I did get dessert three times and once I got real, fresh, crispy fried chicken, so it hadn’t all been useless)

Ok, I think you get the idea. Our whole lives are one big stream of negative and positive reinforcement like a puppy in obedience school. So yeah, anyway, shower. There are no knobs or anything, so we don’t get to control the temperatures and we’re literally locked in the stalls so we can’t get out. On a good day you get a super long, steaming hot shower. Bad, and you get a super short cold shower. Of course, I’m just lucky enough to have had a really really bad day, so I get 15-20 minutes of liquid ice hitting me in the face. I’m not going go into detail on my exact thoughts during the shower, but I assure you most words had less than five letters and more than three.

Sure, there are a couple spots were you can kinda sorta hide from the spray, but half your body ends up getting hit with water anyway, so you have to keep switching sides so you’re not half-numb half-not cause then you walk with a weird limp until you warm up.

Finally finally the buzzer sounds, the door unlocks, and I’m out of that slush bath so fast it would have surprised one of the speedsters. Towel wrapped around my trembling shoulders desperately I look in the mirror for the ice I swear should forming on my sideburns. Nothing. It’s kinda disappointing. I hop back and forth trying desperately to heat myself up as I frantically towel myself dry, waiting for the chute to open and give me my clean clothes. The instant the metal slab cover the chute starts to open my hands are darting inside to grab a pair of socks and spare my feet frost bite from the freezing tiles. I’m so desperate to save my poor frozen toes that I don’t even notice what outfit exactly is sitting on the mini-elevator. Crap again. Cause those aren’t casual clothes, they aren’t pajamas. No, they’re athletic clothes, dark colored spandex-y dry fit. That can only mean one thing: I’m the lucky duck that messed up bad enough to score extra training during recreation time. Lovely.

Arrgh. I groan inwardly. See, if the camera catches me complaining they’ll just find something else to add to my already obviously fantastic day, but I can complain to you as much as I want. Don’t you feel lucky? With a face as carefully blank as I can possibly make it (And that’s pretty good. I’m the poker champion here. Though, that could be because I’m the only one whose mind they can’t read, but whatever, details, details) I slip on the form-fitting uniform and wait by the doors until they finally open and I can head to the dining hall to choke down dinner before training. Oh boy Oh boy, after today I’ll probably get a bowl of Brussel sprouts or something equally gross.

Okay, by now I bet you’re thinking that this is a pretty big hoopla over just getting a bad score on a test. Well, you’re right. Usually that would get you a cold-lukewarm shower and something like spaghetti with no meatball or cheese. But well, I haven’t known you long so I don’t know if you can tell really, but I don’t exactly have the best attitude. I know, shocker, right? I may have kind of mouthed off to a trainer earlier. In my defense, she was harping on me about not paying attention in class and had actually said the words ‘its like you don’t even want to be here’. Yeah, gotta say, I’m not exactly regretting it. Still, punishment stinks.

Silently, like a good little robot, I take my place in line to get the plate with my name on it. I eye everyone else while I wait, trying to spot another kid in training gear.

Ugh! See that, I’m really good at keeping my groans on the inside. I’ve had plenty of practice.

The only other kid is one of the superstrenth types. Great. Not that the kid has it out for me personally or anything, (I’ve never even met him before, he’s a few years younger) but his type are always a little too eager to please. Even if their powers don’t work on me, training with them pretty much always ends up with me getting the stuffing beat out of me while the trainers yell at me not to fight back. All in the name of “science”. Yeah, not fun. I don’t really have anything against the brawny types, but I wouldn’t complain if I never had to train against them again. I also wouldn’t complain if I never had to train at all again, but you know, whatever. 

Nodding in thanks to the food distributer I accept the covered tray and make my way to my usual seat. A cup of iceless water sits on the corner of the tray. Yeah, that one had been expected. I move my hand to the top of the cover. Cross your fingers that it’s something semi-edible.

Macaroni and cheese. My face falls.

Outwardly at least. Between you and me, I’m ecstatic.

See, sometimes I think that all the punishments in my early years were a good thing. They gave me time to get smart, figure out how to work the system. I’m not sure how ten year old me realized the genius behind pretending to absolutely hate macaroni and cheese, but I thank him (me?) for it every time I’m given this delicious gooey manna as “punishment”. Which is, you know, at least once every other week. I also applaud myself (him?) for not getting so excited about one of his (my? Our?) first non-punishment meals to blow it.

Ok, technically it hadn’t been hard. The first time I got good old macaroni, I made a weird face after every bite and drank a ton of water. Next time, I made sure to look disappointed. The third time I complained to the people around me, claiming that I couldn’t understand why I was getting stuck with macaroni and cheese when I’d thought I’d been behaving. It’s amazing the lies they’ll believe when they can’t read your mind. Of course, everyone else loved macaroni cheese, because, duh! The thought that I didn’t was weird enough that the thought stuck in their minds long enough for the mind readers constantly monitoring us to get the message. One kid had asked me why I didn’t like it. At twelve year of age (yes it took me two years to get rewarded with it, shut up), I hadn’t exactly thought that far yet and had mumbled something about it having the texture of pasta but not the flavor or something. I mean, what is there to legitimately complain about when it comes to macaroni and cheese? Whatever I said must have worked though. The next time I got it, it was after I’d mouthed off to every single trainer in one day.

Considering how crappy the rest of my day had been, and how crappy training is going to be, macaroni and cheese is a welcome hidden comfort. Another benefit to my 7 year old ruse, it always turns what is guaranteed to be a horrible day somewhat manageable. Even if I do have to keep up with the weird faces and practically shovel it into my mouth.

I’m going through the customary motions of picking up the gooey, cheesy noodles and letting them flop back into the bowl with my nose scrunched in “disgust” when Nicole and Desmond drop their platters onto the table, Felice right behind them. We exchange soft greetings as they lift their platters to varying degrees of happiness. It must have been pasta day, because everyone has something noodle-like. Nicole got macaroni like me, but she got bits of hamburger in hers and she looks a lot happier about it than I do.

Felice nodded to my uniform with a roll of her eyes as she speared a ravioli with her fork, “You planning on actually joining us for recreation time one of these days so we can finish our game or are you too worried you’re gonna get beat? We’ll only get to keep it set up for so long.”

“Yeah right, like anyone else plays that game to complain about us hogging it.” I retort. She snorts and Desmond rolls his eyes. “Besides, it’s not my fault I failed that stupid test, I had extra training yesterday during independent study time.”

“Cause you tried to steal someone else’s dessert.” She sniped back.

“He offered it to me. If anything, they should be grateful that I uncovered how terrible Gerald is at shielding his thoughts. Kid promised he was great at it.”

Desmond snickered, “If you had thought to ask me, I could have told you that.” The mind reader smirked, rising a finger to his head in a mocking gesture to imitate the “psychics” we’d see occasionally on the television.

“Yeah right,” I laugh, “your thoughts are so open I bet every mind reader in here knows what color your underwear is.”

“Green with yellow stripes.” Calypse says immediately as she walks past. Desmond’s ears redden as though in confirmation.

“I didn’t even know that without double checking.” He admits, and I feel a bubble of laughter rising in my throat. I “force” a few bites of macaroni down as the laughter dies back down. It wasn’t smart to have friends here, not when everyone’s so conditioned that they would give you up in a heartbeat the instant they were told too, but these three were the closest I had I suppose. Maybe if we get bought by the same master I’d let myself think of them as more than people I hang out with occasionally, but more likely than not we’ll never see each other again after the auction. Maybe we’ll get occasional glances if our masters run in the same social circles, but there would be no more gossiping or laughing or playing board games, just furtive looks and occasional encouraging smiles.

Until then though, I was going to take what I could get.

Nicole makes a low humming sound as she takes a bite of her dinner. “Looks like you’re working with Tyson tonight.”

I twist around to look back to the other kid destined for training after dinner, in the seats designated for kids two years younger than us. The strongman is hunched over a bowl of pasta, picking through his bowl miserably despite the delicious looking sauce and plump meatballs.

“Yup,” I groan as I turn back to Nicole. “Why couldn’t you do worse on that test?” I moan teasingly(ish). If I had to work with a strongman I’d rather it be her than some kid I didn’t know.

She simply flashes a smile back at me. “That’s my best subject,” she says brightly as though it never occurred to her to do badly on a test. It probably never has and never will.

Nicole is probably the strongest of the strongmen in pure strength, like she can lift double what Clair’s boyfriend, Bryce, can. She’s also the smallest. Barely reaching 5 foot and lighter than 90 pounds soaking wet, she was my favorite to work with because without her powers her punches hurt a lot less than Bryce’s, who’s shaped like a linebacker.

“You work with him at all?” I ask. They group people with similar powers in different age groups together all of the time to train and compare. Never me of course because I’m a special little snowflake, but you know.

Nicole nods as she takes a drink. “He’s alright, not as strong as me but he’s a good fighter. Always plays by the book, a real goody-two-shoes.” I raise by brows at that, Nicole has some of the best clothes and bedding in our bunker. I’d never seen her get punished with anything worse than getting her dessert taken away. If she called someone else a goody two shoes then this was probably his first time getting night training. Great, I’m gonna be spending the whole night with a kid so eager to please he won’t be able to see straight. “He’s probably did bad on a test. There’s no way he intentionally got himself stuck with a punishment.”

I shrug, unrepentant. It was still worth it. At least, for now I think it was. Maybe. “You sure you don’t want to cause a food fight or something, get him switched out for you?”

“Pass.” She rolled her eyes and popped a bite of macaroni into her mouth.

I raise a brow a Felice in question but she just rolls her eyes. “Keep dreaming.”

Desmond says no before I can even turn to him. Jerk.

“Why do I hang out with you people again?”

They all shrug in unison, though Felice does offer “because we’re the only ones willing to be seen with the bad kid?”

Yeah, that was fair. I nodded, but Desmond just huffed at me to shut up and eat my dinner. Don’t mind if I do. I ‘choke’ down my meal while the other three converse around me, talking about this training or that exercise. Desmond is almost constantly fidgeting, either pushing up his glasses or pushing back his dark brown bangs or scratching at his face. His skin has somehow managed to break out in angry red acne despite the strict healthy diet, mandated showers and face washes, and prescription acne care cream thrust on him by every medical personnel here. They’re currently trying another new cream, but if he scratches at it much more it’s not going to have a chance to do anything. Mind readers usually look sharp, sneaky, and devious. Their faces seem to be locked in a current state of concentration, or they just seem to be overwhelmed. They look like a James Bond villain, not like a kid who just stepped out of an all day long video game tournament in their parent’s basement.

Desmond and Nicole both look so opposite what other with their powers look like that they could be powerful tools. They’re both powerful, but easily overlooked. It’ll help a lot auction day.

Felice, I like to call her Filly but she hates that, looks just like the speedster she is: tall, thin, and willowy. There isn’t an ounce of fat on her lanky frame. She’s about average when it comes to speedster speed, but she can take turns closer and faster than anyone else. So while she may not win on a straight track, she hasn’t lost yet when they raced the speedsters through a maze. She’ll probably be ok at the auction, but maybe not as good as the other two.

I could go either way if they actually put me up. Either people will see my oh-so-special brand of crazy and decide it’s amazing and useful or they’ll go ‘what the heck is that good for’ and walk away. Ideally, I’ll be expensive. I mean, the way I see it you’d think people would treasure something the more they paid for it, like I wanna be an investment, not a spur of the moment purchase. If it’s cheap you just use it and throw it away, but you pay a lot of money and you’re gonna make sure that thing keeps running.

The way I see it, the lucky ones end up with the richest, the people who have so many Vires that you aren’t given a passing thought and can just live in the shadows. It’s the small places with only a couple of Vires and all the attention that are the problems. I’ll take being ignored any day. If you ask me, the trainers here pay way too much attention to me.

Speaking of attention, I glance back at Tyson’s table to find the kid glancing back at me with increasing levels of dismay as one of his friends alternates between glancing at me and talking to the strongman. I nudge Desmond without looking back at the table. “What are they talking about?”

The boy shoots me a glare and mumbles how super hearing and mind reading are two completely different things before his eyes go slightly glassy. Like most mind readers he can hear the thoughts of anyone within normal earshot shot, but he has to concentrate to hear anyone too far away.

He laughs, “Apparently your reputation precedes you. Goody-two-shoes over there isn’t thrilled to be working with the local bad boy.”

I snort as I plop the last forkful of cheesy noodles into my mouth. Forcing a grimace to hide my pleasure at the flavor, I finish it up with a smirk. “I’m not exactly happy to be working with him either. Besides, it’s not like he’s the one that gonna come out of this black and blue.”

Filly shrugged. “He’d just go to the healers anyway if he did.”

“Exactly.”

“Lay off,” Nicole says with a roll of her eyes. “Tyson’s nervous. Unlike you this is probably his first time getting training as punishment.”

“That’s okay,” Desmond smirks, as his hand lands on my back with a heavy pat. “he’s a pro at this. He’ll be able to show the kid the ropes.”

“Yeah, sure,” I roll my eyes, but it’s true. I probably spend more evenings training than actually having recreation time. Lately I’ve been considering acting good so that they don’t have an excuse to keep me instead of putting me up for auction, but I’ll go ahead and admit that I know more about late night training than the average kid. Definitely more than a kid Nicole called a goody-two-shoes.

A low buzzer sounds and almost as one the kids in section designated for the 10 year olds stand and begin to carry their dishes into the kitchen before leaving the lunchroom altogether. Occasionally a kid sticks behind to clean as punishment. I wish I was so lucky. In all the times I’ve been punished I’d never gotten extra cleaning as punishment. Always extra training. Oh the joys of having an original power.

Another buzzer sounds and the sounds of people eating quickens as the 11 year olds stand, everyone in the older years attempting to finish their meals before they’re forced to leave. I grimace, idly spinning my fork around the small empty bowl. It’s not like they starve me or anything, but I don’t get as much as the obedient puppets when I misbehave. It doesn’t bother me. Usually.

Ok I lied, I hate it.

Especially when they give me extra training too. I’m going to be starving at bed time, probably. I mean, it might not be too bad, depending on what I have to do, but I’d much rather just do recreation time. Then again, I’d pretty much always rather just do recreation time, so that isn’t saying much. Honestly, I think I’d even rather do school than training, so that’s really not saying much.

Four buzzes later and Tyson’s grade stands and begins to exit. My training partner hesitated at the door, taking one last glance back at me. I flash him a smile and a wave, but the kid only pales and practically runs out the door. Welp. This is going to be such a fun evening.


	3. Untested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think my summary is kinda off putting because people reading it might have thought I (the author) was speaking. If that were true, then it would be a kinda rude summary but I wanted to make it true to this writing style and true to my character. If it's not much trouble could you comment your impression of the summary when you read it the first time, and maybe give suggestions? Thanks!

By the time I make it to the main gym Tyson has been instructed to stand off to the side while they set everything up. One of the trainers raises their brows at me, but I just wave him off. I know the drill by now. I go silently to stand by Tyson, and the kid is staring straight ahead, as if just looking at me would mark him as a bad seed. Oh boy.

“Hey,” I introduce myself, but he simply jumps and gives me a side eyed glance before continuing to stare straight ahead. I sigh, before speaking again in a ridiculous falsetto, never mind the fact that the strongman was twice my size. “Oh hello, my name is Tyson, nice to meet you this fine day.” I drop my voice back to normal. “Hello Tyson, Nicole works with you sometimes, we hang out a lot.” Falsetto. “Oh how interesting, she’s a lovely girl.” Lower. “I know she is, really great.” No response from him. “You know, I could do this all day.” I know because I have before. Or, at least I did it for 20 minutes straight when an especially taciturn shapeshifter a year older had refused to speak last year. It had felt like forever, but he was an interesting guy. Well, falsetto him was an interesting guy. I’m sure the real thing was really boring, most people here are.

Tyson’s eyes move from me briefly to the trainers before looking back at the floor. Oh great, one of those types. “You know, these guys don’t care if we talk while they get ready.”

He shoots me a look as if I were crazy. Wow, he’s really expressive for not talking. “I know, I know normally they don’t like it, but do you really recognize any of these guys? They’re the overflow trainers, working overtime. The grunt workers who hope to one day climb the ladders and become the everyday trainers we all know and dislike. They don’t care what we do as long as it doesn’t get in the way of training. Isn’t that right Jerry?”

“Yup.” One of the men drawls as he walks past.

I grin, but Tyson just looks horrified that I’m on speaking terms with a trainer who only works during punishment which, yeah that’s fair.

I let him stand in silence for a minute, watching the obviously bored trainers set up a shock absorbing targets specially designed for strongmen as another man fiddles with the speaker system. I’ll let you guess which one is for him and which is for me.

I am so bored.

And this kid still hasn’t moved or made a sound. He’s barely breathing and he looks terrified. Wow this sucks. And it’s annoying. Here I’m about to get the stuffing beat out of me in the name of science and he’s acting like he’s a kitten facing a bear.

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re so worried about but stop.” They may have come out a bit snippier than I really wanted, but I’ve had a pretty bad day. Besides, what’s the use of having a bad boy reputation if you can’t use it as an excuse when you’re feeling grumpy? “You’re fine. You probably didn’t even do that bad, just worse than anyone else with your powers. This is mostly about me. Probably. You’re the strongman here, what do you have to worry about in the first place?”

His eyes shoot back to where the trainers are ignoring us. Before finally talking. Finally. “You. And whatever your power is.”

I can’t help it, I snort. It takes everything in me not to just burst out laughing. Apparently my reputation didn’t precede me as much as I thought. It said something around here when your personality was more well-known than your powers. Probably nothing good, but still.

“Dude, as happy as I am that you apparently can talk, I have to say that is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say. I have literally the least scary power ever. Except the glowing kid, I may have him beat, but it’d be a slim thing. No wait, it could hurt if it was dark and he turned really bright. Never mind he beat me.” Crap. That’s really pathetic.

He scowled at me. “What is it?”

“Eh, it’s kinda weird, hard to describe. You should have heard me earlier, I can barely describe it in my own mind. It’s like-crap, crap, oh crap.” Almost automatically my mouth jams shut and my arms practically glue themselves to my sides as a bit of a white coat flashes from the corner of my eyes. The scientist didn’t bother to spare either of us a glance as he went to speak with Jerry.

“Wha-”

“Shut up.” I nearly hiss. “Ignore everything I said about- pretty much everything. Just behave or whatever it is you normally do.”

He probably gave me a weird look, I’m not sure because I kept my eyes firmly locked on the ground. I hate the scientists, all of them. Unlike the night trainers, I don’t know any of their names, they’re just scientists 1, 2, 3, 4, and 6. Scientist 5 got fired last year.

This one is number 2. Not that it matters. I swear they’re all hive minded, no distinct personalities to speak of, at least none that I’ve seen. I only know their differences based on what they look like or sound like. This is brunet-with-goatee guy. He’s had the exact same haircut and beard for the 9 years that I’ve been here. I suspect it’s because it’s the only thing keeping him from being confused with number 4, brunet-without-goatee. (In case you’re wondering, the others in order are 1: blonde-woman 3: red-head-with-beard and 6: brunette-woman-with-glasses. 5 had been bald-man. Or at least, he had been after the incident with the force field and the kid who shot fire.)

I can almost feel Tyson stressing out next to me as he processes my words. Oops. I feel bad about that, sure, but not nearly bad enough to actually risk talking with the scientist here. They hate me. Or, well, I don’t know that that’s necessarily true. I hate them, which seems close enough. They’re “fascinated by me”, the fate of a kid with a brand new power. They’re always experiment, testing, observing. They never seemed to get that I have no control of my powers, that there’s nothing to control. I’m just me, and somehow no one’s powers worked no matter what I did. And trust me, I’ve tried to let people’s powers work. Once when I was 12 they said they weren’t going to let me eat until I used my mind to tell one of the mind readers what I wanted. It took them a week to give up, but by then they finally came to the conclusion that I couldn’t mentally control it. Woopdie doo. I could have saved them a lot of time with that one.

Anyway, sorry, I was rambling. I tend to do that when I’m bored out of my mind waiting for them to set this stuff up. I think you get the idea, they’re always testing something and I’m their current favorite guinea pig. Training with a strongman is one thing, doing an experiment with one is going to be much worse.

Of course, going from pretty bad to much worse has kinda been the theme of my life, so I’m not sure why I’m pretending to be surprised.

The scientist suddenly barks out my identification number and I hurry to his side, arms clasped behind my back and head appropriately bowed. As if the scientists weren’t bad enough by themselves, they also have direct contact with whoever regulates punishments. If I’m lucky they’ll consider the bath, food, and night training enough punishment and I won’t have to get up too early, but that won’t happen if I tick off the scientist. So I’m stuck going along with whatever experiment then force on me lest I get a 5:00 alarm.

That is, assuming that I’m in good enough shape to do training tomorrow after whatever this is. Number 2 doesn’t even look up as I get closer, his eyes locked on his stupid tablet with all the stupid notes and stupid statistics. They never look up, never act like we’re anything more than experiments, less than rats in a cage. The only thing they care about are those numbers of their tablets, adding new information to it and- hey! What the heck? He just walked right past me. Oh, that’s fine. It’s not like you just called me over here or anything. Rude.

I turn to follow the lab coat, but a hand of my shoulder startles me into stopping and instead I look up to see Jerry frowning at me. “They’re not ready for you over there yet, you’re stuck with laps until they are.”

I nod, laps are boring but not too bad considering. However, he doesn’t take his hand off my shoulder as I move to the starting line.

“Not normal laps,” he says with another grimace. “I figured you were gonna be down here and was planning to try something new I made up, but apparently Jimmy Neutron had something special planned for tonight. Lucky for me, he’s graciously allowed me to stick with my plan for the first half of training.”

Jerry rolled his eyes and I chanced a grin despite the nearby scientist. This was why I liked Jerry. If all trainers were like Jerry, I might even start to like training.

Ok, that’s a lie.

Still, it’s nice to think that he planned something for me. Most of the time training consists of practicing control and stretching the limits of someone’s powers, but since I have no control or limits to speak of, my night training was usually half working with someone who actually had a power and half working out while the trainers focused on the other kid. Sometimes I get hand to hand or weapons training, but most of the times the masters that teach us go home long before night training so it’s just practice instead of leaning anything new. Of course, most kids are so busy with their powers that they hardly practice tactical stuff at all, so I’m the bomb when it comes to sparring and tournament days. I usually get somewhere within the top three for my age group in all the different categories. So, in short even though I hate losing recreation time and working out after dinner, night training itself would be ten times better than day training if it weren’t so boring.

“It’s not any easier than your normal workouts,” Jerry continues. “Might be a bit harder. I mostly made it to keep you from being bored.”

See, Jerry gets me. Number 2 is talking seriously to Tyson, so I risk another smile and a barely audible “Thanks.”

His lips tightened, but his hand squeezes my shoulder before he drops it so it’s probably because of the scientist instead of me. Probably. Maybe.

He walks over to the speaker controls and I follow without needing prompting.

“Okay, you’re going to start off at a normal run, but when you hear this,” a high beep fills the air and I wince. Ouch. “Start sprinting. This,” two chimes, “Mean go back to running. This,” a honk, “means slow to a jog.” Ok, I’m not going to bore you by saying what all the sounds were and what they mean, but in the end there were about ten of them. Those three, one that meant vertical jumps, burpees, jumping jacks, a set of martial arts moves, drop and roll, run backwards, and finally the blessed sound that meant I could stop.

I’ll give this to him, it’s not boring. My mind just keeps constantly spinning as I run, trying to remember and identify each sound. Soon enough a sound rings out and I begin to sprint, only to hear Jerry yell “Wrong, go back!” slowing to a jog I go back to where I was when I heard the sound, but not matter how much I wrack my brains I can’t, at the moment, remember what that particular sound meant. I start jumping jacks. “Wrong.” Vertical jumps. “Wrong.” Burpee? He says nothing as I do my first one. Or second, or third. I’m on my sixth when the run backwards chime sounds and I jump to my feet. Yup, definitely not bored. By the time he finally let me stop I’m pretty sure I had spent a third of the training having to correct wrong moves.

I’m suddenly reconsidering my approval of Jerry.

I’m really reconsidering it as I see the scowl on his face as he leads me to the side of the track near Tyson. They’ve set him up in front of one of the targets with a blindfold on, hovering around and correcting the kid whenever he doesn’t hit the bulls-eye head on. They must have been doing it the whole time I was running though, because he hits dead center almost every time. The scientist eyes the force calculator after each hit, occasionally making a note on that accursed tablet. He looks up after a particularly loud (and presumably strong) hit and we catch eyes. I tear my eyes to the floor almost immediately, but that short moment was enough to send a cold shockwave of fear through me. Can you tell I hate the scientists? I just wanted to make sure, didn’t want to be too subtle about this.

Jerry silently directs me to where a second target sits. Oh, this isn’t too bad. Actually it could be interesting. They’ve been testing the effects of intent on my powers recently, like does my intent or someone else’s affect my powers at all. For example, it doesn’t matter if a telekinetic knows that I’m touching something or not, they can’t move what I’m holding. Or how if a shapeshifter is shifting to fool a room at large I’m the only one who can see through it, but if he’s specifically trying to trick me he doesn’t change at all. That kind of stuff. It would be interesting to see if me competing with his punching strength will affect anything even when he doesn’t know we’re competing. And it shouldn’t be too painful, so I’m always up for that.

I stop a few feet from the target, just within striking distance and get into a ready stance. Before I can move, I look up to see Jerry shaking his head, his mouth once more drawn into a tight line. He points to a spot only a few inches in front of the target and off to the side. Oh. I guess I don’t know what we’re doing. Surprise surprise.

I hesitate once I’m in position because, and I’ll say it again, I have no clue what we’re doing, but Ray simply crouches and points to my arm. I copy his position and stretch my arm out, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are locked on Tyson. Like the idiot I am I don’t realize what’s going on until he suddenly wrenches my arm up to sit dead center of the target, the movement coinciding perfectly with the fearsome clang of Tyson’s punch.

Oh no, no no no no no. I have to bite my lip to keep from saying anything out loud, and now Jerry won’t even look at me. He squeezes my wrist, maybe in apology, maybe encouragement, maybe simply as a warning before he wrenches it up again, this time my arm doesn’t quite make it to the bulls-eye until after the clang of Tyson’s target.

This is going to suck.

15 year olds shouldn’t be strong enough to break your arm right? Best case scenario I’ll get the full strength of a 15 year olds punch, possibly breaking my arm but probably not. Worse case I get the full strength of a strongman’s punch, definitely shattering my arm and maybe harming it beyond anything anyone could do to help. I could lose the arm. My hand is trembling in Jerry’s grip, I know it is because my other hand is shaking too. He still won’t look at me.

I don’t move as he continues to move my arm, matching Tyson’s rhythm. Each movement gets me closer to the moment I could lose my arm. It’s terrifying. No powers have ever worked on me before, but Tyson wouldn’t even know he was about to hit me. The intention wouldn’t be there and apparently that’s all these current experiments were about. If they finally found a loophole… well this would be a really crappy time for them to find a loophole.

But I can’t move. Moving and struggling always makes it worse, always. There have been plenty times I remember fighting, thinking it can’t get any worse than this. It always had. I fought the punishments, thinking nothing could be worse than what I was going through in that moment. It always had. There’s no use fighting, might as well wait, save my energy to heal whatever was about to happen. There’s no way they would stop after one punch, no way that this would end well.

Oh well, maybe it’ll mean an easy day tomorrow (Probably not).

Eventually Jerry stands, his hand still gripping my wrists. I’m careful to keep my face blank as I rise with him. This isn’t his fault. If he weren’t here it would just be someone else. Someone who wouldn’t mouth sorry to me before leading me over.

The now bored scientist perks up in interest as we near. They always do that when they see me, it’s really creepy. Like, think about when you walk into a room and everyone gets quiet and stares at you, but imagine only one person does it and they do it any time you get near them. Creepy, right? Just me? Ok.

I don’t look at him as I get into position, making sure that I’m as silent as possible. If I mess this up in any way I’ll just have to go through it again. And again. And again. It’s not worth it. My hand is trembling again as I reach across to let Jerry grab my wrist, but I do what I can to keep my face blank. Stupidly, I glance at the neon numbers proclaiming how hard the kid’s hitting.

Ouch, that’s a lot. I mean, I don’t exactly memorize the different forces of stuff to say something smart like, ‘oh, that’s more force than a train’ or anything but those numbers are really high. Like, level a building high. 

It’s while I’m distracted that it happens. Movement. Pain. I’m clutching my arm before I consciously realize it, breathe coming out in a tight hiss as I cradle my painful but blessedly functional arm. My hand, still shaking in residual fear and adrenalin, clenches and unclenches as I roll my shoulder. Ok, ok I’m fine. It hurts, but nothing’s broken. More importantly nothings shattered. It must not have worked.

Or maybe it had. Whatever, I just care about my arm, not the stupid experiment. The scientist can be worried about that for the both of us.

He’s frowning at the force readings, making notes on his tablet and muttering. “A little high for his age but not supernaturally so. Perhaps if we took a sample only of children with similar activity lives it would be more accurate.”

My eyes slip uncertainly to Tyson. The kid had his blindfold dangling in his hand, as though he’d torn it off the instant he felt something other than metal, and was watching me with wide eyes. We meet eyes and for a moment I don’t know what to do. I should smile at him, set the poor kid at ease, but I’m hurt. I’m sure he’s about to hurt me a lot more and I just, I’m having trouble finding it in me to life my lips.

I’m having a bad day.

Before I can actually decide what to do, number 2 turns back to us, instructing me to stretch my arm across the target again. I turn my back to them so that the other arm stretches over the target. Jerry takes it without comment, though I see his eyes flick to the scientist. I hold my breath, mentally begging them not to make me turn around. At least I know that it’ll just be a normal beat down today, no bones shattering or anything. Still, we have almost an hour left in this training session, I’ll take a change in target any time I can get it.

Especially if this kid could break my bone with enough well placed hits. This close to auction day broken bones could be bad, if I have to go to auction in a cast it could lower my price. The lower the price the greater danger of not actually leaving this place. So yeah, not having to turn would be preferable. Just by a bit.

I bite my lip in angry frustration when number two’s voice sounds angrily behind me.

“Don’t bother with the blindfold. I need a base example of your force when you intend to hit him. Just punch his arm, and don’t slack off. I know how hard it should be.”

Oh good, he isn’t yelling at me, he’s just- OW! Owowowowowowowow!

I have to fight back a whimper as my knees drop to the floor. Ok, turning around was a bad plan, that was a bad angle, a bad everything. Ow to the shoulder. 

I stay on my knees as the lab coat records the numbers, once more muttering to himself. This time though, when he calls for us to get in ready position for phase three I make sure I’m facing them again. Being backwards hadn’t helped, hello broken arm. There is no small amount of horror in Tyson’s eyes as I get back on my feet to crouch. That’s the real kicker to all of this. He’s freaked out, I know he is. He probably doesn’t like beating up on a kid who isn’t allowed to move, but the instant they say punch he’ll- CLANG!

I jump as the sound of a fist hitting the target rings throughout the room, staring the target in confused wonder. Tyson’d hit the bulls-eye dead on, but at the very last second Jerry had pulled my arm away from the kill zone.

I take back anything I ever said bad about Jerry, anything ever. He was amazing, he was great. Better than unicorns and chocolate. He’d stopped the experiment right in front of the scientist who… who was calmly recording the data as if that had been meant to happen. Oh. Right, duh. Never mind, I take back the take back.

The scientist takes notes for a long time, staring at the readings which have gone back to Tyson’s normal power readings, still with his muttering. They all mutter. I think they like to pretend it’s because their brains are working so hard knowledge and wisdom just happens to fall out and grace us lesser people. I think they sound pretentious and annoying, but what do I know? “The attacker’s intention doesn’t appear to have any impact. Next to take away the factor of the subject’s intent.”

Handing the tablet to a nearby trainer, number 2 pulls a prepared syringe out of his pocket. I bite my tongue as I rise from my crouch and go through the familiar motions of presenting my neck. 

I hate needles.

The world fades to black with a sharp sting.


	4. Unfit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to make a character's name Jerry right before I start watching Park's and Rec, don't I? I can't take my own character seriously even more, he isn't even remotely similar to Parks and Rec Jerry but I just...... the name is ruined for me.

I hate mornings. I’m kinda assuming you do too, so hey, that’s something we have in common. I think complaining at the alarm and snuggling into your blankets is the world’s most cherished pastime.

If it’s not then it should be.

Unfortunately, as always the alarm just keeps on going. And going. And going. And going.

And going.

I groan as I roll to the edge of the bed, breathing out death threats against the inanimate object that ruined my sleep. At least if I’m getting woken by the alarm it means that I’m just waking up for breakfast and not the horrors of morning training. It could be worse. I’m an optimist.

Well, as optimistic as anyone can be in the morning.

With a final groan I force myself to sit up, finally forcing a leg out from under my blanket to the floor and- ooh. Legs are not supposed to be that color.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My mind went blank. That’s- that really bad. If it’s not bad enough that my leg turned into a Jackson Pollock painting overnight, apparently the pain was just waiting to ambush me until I saw it because it hit like a ton of bricks. Or a car. Or a train. Or a- well, I’m sure you get it. And it’s not just the leg, it’s the other leg too. And my arms. I think I have a headache starting too, but that could be because that stupid alarm is still going.

I close my eyes and brace myself as I swing my other leg over the bed and shake off the blanket so it lands in a crumpled heap on my bed. A new, sharper pain starts in my mouth as I bite my cheek to keep from groaning. I force my eyes open and nearly fall back onto the bed. Not. Good.

Closing my eyes once more I force myself to step forward towards the bathroom. Man, what did they do to me last night? I’ve got… a gap. Oh man, I hate gaps. I wish I could say they were uncommon. There were force calculating targets. Jerry was holding my arm, I was worried they would crush it. They were testing intention and it didn’t work. It didn’t work. Thank goodness it didn’t work. Then- the needle.

Oh. That always came before the gaps honestly, but sometimes it was hard to remember when and why exactly it happened.

Since when was the bathroom so far away? This sucks.

My legs feel weak and they seem to be throbbing with each step. I’m trying not to really move my arms much, but that won’t last long. Just gotta put one foot in front of another. Then the next. The next. Oh finally, the bathroom.

I’m in the middle of, you know, doing my business, when I hear the familiar click of the shower door unlocking. Nooooooo. Yet another lovely benefit of night training is morning showers. Morning showers, while not inherently bad, are always bad. They’re considered part of punishment so they’re cold, and you’re late for breakfast. I’m hurt and so hungry. And cranky. I’ve heard the term hangry before, like so hungry you’re angry. That’s me.

Oh well, might as well get it over with.

My breath leaves in a gasp as freezing water punches through my purpled flesh. I almost choke on air and actually have to grab the wall to stabilize me, only for the injured limb to buckle and nearly send me sprawling to the floor. Ouch.

The morning showers only last as long as it takes you to shower, the door doesn’t even lock, but we aren’t allowed out of the bathroom until we take a proper shower. I can do it in 4.5 minutes. It’ll take longer because my arms are sore, but I think I can still get under 7.

Man I wish there was a clock in here.

Oh well, whatever, I get out of the shower eventually and manage to force the clothes on. They couldn’t even be bothered to get me clothes that cover the bruises, just the normal T-shirt and athletic pants. My arms look terrible. Oh well, the door is unlocking which just get’s me closer to breakfast.

Breakfast is my favorite meal. Not for all of that ‘most important meal of the day’ crap. Breakfast is considered the ‘start of a new day’, we get a clean slate. Of course, I’ve managed to get punished for breakfast before. It’s a special talent.

Most of the time though, breakfast is good. It’s the best part of my day sometimes. From the smell of things, this is going to be one of those days. Pancakes and bacon. Maybe today won’t be so bad.

It probably will be, but optimism is important. Almost as important as maple syrup.

I can feel eyes on me as I make my way to the line, the unlucky kids who got stuck with morning training trickling in behind me. Bruises are a rarity here, they always turn me into a sideshow freak. These kids have never had an injury in their life that wasn’t fixed in half an hour by the healers. They don’t know the dull ach of an old bruise, or how a twisted ankle starts to feel glasslike and brittle the second day. I feel sorry for them. If they end up somewhere without a healer, or with someone who doesn’t care enough to let them use one it’ll be torture for them. Then I’ll be the one with the advantage, but for now I’m the freak. I’m the unwilling chameleon, painted in purples and blues and yellows that slowly change colors and fade.

I should be a poet.

Mmmm. Bacon. I can smell it, just under the domed lid, right with my grasp. As usual, I’m the last one to the table. The stares don’t stop as I sit with my companions, but we have a system. They stare openly and I pretend not to notice. And that it doesn’t bother me, but whatever. 

I pull the lid off of my breakfast and breathe in a deep breath, savoring the succulent scent of syrup and savory… bacon. Darn it, so close. Swine! I could have gone with swine, but that’s kinda… gross. Whatever, it smells fantastic.

Now comes the fun part, seeing how much I can eat before one of them manages to man up and ask me about it. Usually it’s Felice, sometimes Nicole. Rarely Desmond.

The bacon is completely gone, and there’s half of one pancake left when Desmond finally speaks up. Surprise. “He keeps on thinking ‘I’m sorry’ really hard in our direction, if that means anything.”

It doesn’t. Not when he would do it again this instant if the trainers so much as clapped their hands. Still, around here you have to take what you can get. I don’t think the kids here really understand what an apology is supposed to mean. It’s more of an expression of sadness that I got hurt than any real regret for hurting me. Like, sorry your hamster died. I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I’m sorry for you.

I turn back to see Tyson staring at our table intently and give him a nod and a tight smile. He grins back, seemingly content with that. Like I said, take what you can get.

“So what did they do?” Felice asks. Nicole doesn’t look up from her plate, dragging her fork through the syrup.

I shrug, shoving the last half of pancake into my mouth in one bite. “It wasn’t training, one of the scientists showed up so it turned into an experiment. They were testing intention or whatever, seeing if that effects something. I was unconscious for most of it, honestly.”

Desmond nods. “They’re doing a lot more experiments like that. They must be trying to learn everything they can before the auction.”

Felice grimaces before speaking, eyeing my arms. “They’re getting more violent too. They must think you can handle more since you’re older or something.”

“Or they’re really desperate to finish their experiments.” Desmond adds, purposely leaning back on his previous observation.

They both turn to me to weigh in, but I just shake my head. “No comment.”

They stop immediately. As the only person here capable of having a thought that wasn’t read by 20 plus mind readers, I enjoy my privacy occasionally. Especially when it comes to thoughts that I know will only land me in trouble. I know why they’re doing rougher experiments. If I’m injured, it’ll be harder to sell me and they want to keep me for future experiments. I don’t want them to know that I know, they might get even less subtle. At this point the only thing that would be less subtle would be if they just came at me with a knife.

I also don’t want to tell my table. They won’t get it, they’ll think I’m just going for another sarcastic smart-aleck answer, or that I’m playing up the bitter bad boy persona. They could never conceive of the idea that the scientists were anything other than perfect worker bees who did everything in the name of gaining knowledge. Sure, they weren’t the ones the freaks wanted to dissect.

Suddenly, everyone at my table stiffens and turns back to study their food, eating in perfectly cut bites. Dread pools in my gut fast enough that I nearly cry out when a hand lands heavily on my shoulder. Oh crap- who- oh.

“Jerr- trainer!” I gasp out, getting to my feet and bowing my head as we’re supposed to when approached by an adult. Owwww. Ok, that hurt the legs. Jerry frowns at me but says nothing, just holding out his hands and nodding at mine. What the heck… Uncertainly I hold up my hands, jumping slightly when he pushes a cup of orange juice in one hand and a pair of pills into another.

“Pain relievers.” He nods at the pills. I pop them into my mouth before he says anything more, following them with the juice. If he doesn’t say anything else I can claim I assumed that he brought them under the nurse’s orders, or that I didn’t think I should disobey a trainer.

It’s a lie and they would know that, but the question is whether or not it’s blatant enough to warrant punishment. Hopefully not. “Thank you trainer.”

The man nods, watching me chug the rest of the juice and seeming not to notice how all conversation had long since stopped as everyone subtly watched us. “How are you feeling?”

Woah no, danger Will Robinson, danger. That was a tricky question, luckily I’m a self-proclaimed deflection master. “As well as could be expected, sir.”

He nods, a grimly amused smile playing at his lips before he sighed. “Hope that helps. I didn’t exactly play nice with the lab coat last night when he kept the experiment going a little longer than I thought necessary. Got called in by the boss today, figure I’m about to be handed a pink slip anyways sand the pills were in my car so I figured why not.”

Whelp, there went my plausible deniability. Oh well, I had it when I took the pills, that should be all that matters. Maybe. “Thank you sir for your service as trainer.” And for stopping the scientist.

He must have heard what I dare not say, because he smiles before nodding. He turned to go, but I, well I didn’t yell or anything I’m not stupid, but I made sure he heard me. “Also sir, your laps were horrible. Absolutely awful. But they were a lot more helpful than anything anyone else here thinks up.” You were my favorite. Even if that’s not saying much.

He smiles again at me before leaving and I have to take a deep breath before relaxing back into my seat.

“So, are we going to talk about how you know a punishment trainer by name?” Felice asks the instant the doors close behind Jerry, purposely avoiding mentioning the pain relievers.

I snort out a laugh. “Yeah, realized last night that that probably wasn’t really a good thing.”

She laughs with me as conversation returns to a normal level around the rest of the cafeteria. It’s probably all about me now-if it wasn’t already- but I’m kinda used to that. Desmond and Nicole don’t laugh. Nicole still hasn’t looked up from playing with her plate, but now Desmond is staring into his orange juice.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. Nicole doesn’t even twitch in response, but Desmond lets out a shudder.

“He was remembering last night when he was talking with you.” The buzzer sounds and the youngest group begins to stand, but instead of stuffing down the last of his food Desmond just looks back at me with wide eyes made wider by his glasses. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“Come on, don’t worry about it. You know most of the time memories are super exaggerated.”

He looks at my arms skeptically before his eyes dropped to my legs. “They wanted to just so the arms, but they made them switch cause he was worried they would break you.”

“They’re getting him fired for that?” I frown. Not that I’m surprised. Man I hate the scientists.

Desmond just shook his head. “When the scientist stopped taking notes he argued with him that he should be done until time ran out. He really doesn’t like the scientists.”

I knew I liked Jerry.

The others don’t say anything, three more groups leave and we’re stuck in awkward silence as they digest the fact that the scientist was hurting me without taking notes for science. Or maybe they’re digesting the fact that a trainer dared to argue with a scientist. Or maybe they’re all picturing it and feeling sorry for me.

Desmond throws me a glance and- yup, it’s the third one. I sigh heavily through my nose.

“Hey, at least it didn’t work right? I mean imagine if they’d actually found a loophole when the kid hit me.”

Nicole flinches violently, but by then the 16 year olds are being buzzed out so we have to start collecting our dishes. Felice catches my eye before her gaze travels to my bruises and then the floor. “Make sure you behave today. I want to finish that game.” She says softly, and I nod only to find a hand over my own. Nicole.

She doesn’t look at my bruises, but locks her eyes on mine. “Please be good. We have a chemistry test today.”

My heart almost melts as I nod. Chemistry is her worst subject. If there was any day she’d get night training it would be today. It doesn’t mean that she would have hesitated if she’d been in Tyson’s place last night. It doesn’t mean she would hesitate if we get called in for training today, but like I said: you take what you can get.


	5. Unprepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note, I'm changing his age from 16 to 17 because when I realized it was weird that no one questioned all these rich people about why they had 16 year olds working for them. I thought it made more sense if I made it so they're bought right around when they're turning 18.

So, are you ready for a day in the life of me? Yeah, neither am I.

You’ve already got the drill for the morning. Maybe training, maybe a shower, definitely breakfast. Breakfast ends anywhere between 7:50 and 8:05 depending on your age, then its school until 12, half an hour for lunch, then more school until 2. A couple hours or training or experimentation, an hour of skill development, an hour of study time, 45 minutes for a test, then showers and dinner around 7. Dinner ends around 7:45, then two hours of recreation (or night training), and half an hour quiet time for reading or study in our bunks until lights out.

And that’s it, day after day after day. After day.

After day.

It’s like in a TV show where they’ll make a joke where something is so predictable that they can count down the seconds to when it happens, and when they’re proven right they just look so done with the world. Except it’s more boring and less funny when it happens in real life. By a lot.

Like it was so boring that I just listed it out for you without a single interesting comment or witty complaint. I just honestly couldn’t be bothered to think of something? Did you feel bored reading that? Good. Try living it.

Sorry, you don’t deserve that. Blame it on the fact that I’m 50% purple right now and the only trainer I could stand just got fired. You really aren’t catching me on my best days if I’m going to be honest. I’d recommend tuning in some other time, but truthfully I never really have good days.

I mean, we don’t even get weekends. The only reason we bother to keep track of the weekdays is to know what shows will be on during recreation time and so that we can put the date on our schoolwork. I feel like I have no memories because it’s almost impossible to remember if something happened a couple months ago or a couple years ago. It’s honestly kinda trippy.

I try to keep my memories according to what we were learning in classes at the time, but even that starts to fuzz after a while. Because of the whole “no weekends” thing, and a completely unrelated lets-cram-this-information-down-their-throats-as-quickly-as-possible thing we end up with the equivalent of a high school education by the time we’re thirteen. That gives them four years to push on us any and all information that could possibly be useful to our future masters.

And it’s not a liberal arts degree either, we may spend one week on something then a year on something else, you never know. By the time we leave we have knowledge that approximately the same as a typical 2 year degree in business, with a minor in law. There are the basics of a couple different languages thrown in there too, with the occasional science class, but some of that depends on the power. The geniuses have more science and engineering classes, the healers more anatomy, the strongmen more physics. The disappearing kids may go to the physic classes when they’re talking about light refraction and reflection, but nothing else. The shapeshifters spend a lot of time in anatomy, physiology, and zoology classes.

I’m kinda a mixed bag. Mostly because they don’t know where to put me. Mostly they figure I don’t need to know much about physics or anything, beyond what a leverage and force class may reveal about fighting or shooting techniques. I sat in on some of the basic chemistry and anatomy classes. I was in a philosophy class for a month. Now I’m in a statistic class, some accounting and business management classes, and a couple languages. And, oddly enough, a child and developmental psychology class with the mind readers which—besides making it clearly obvious how good these people are at really messing with our heads—makes me worried that they’re grooming me to be some kinda nanny or something. Sometimes skill development involves taking care of the infants and toddlers which just, no thank you.

The test that I bombed yesterday was for economics, which everyone has to take. We’ll probably never use 75% of this crap, but anyone rich enough to afford one of us will at least talk about it so onto the syllabus it goes. It’s one of the biggest classes, which is good for those whose powers are actually useful in any way. It’s a lot harder to cheat when half the people have a different test than you. Not that people haven’t tried. Yeah, extra schooling doesn’t exactly always mean extra intelligence.

Today’s test is Latin. Because that’s something I’ll use a lot in life.

My first class today is statistics. I know, math first thing in the morning, everyone’s dream schedule. At least it’s one of the closest rooms to the cafeteria, so I don’t have to move much.

No one can say that this place isn’t technologically advanced, though. As we leave the lunchroom to the school we’re marched past our cubbies—that’s right, cubbies. We don’t even get lockers, cause why have locks when nothing belongs to us and we have nothing to hide—to pick up the tablets that serve as our notebooks, textbook, calculator, ect.

They’re really monitored though.

One time I got night and morning training for cussing at a teacher in a document. The words had only stayed up for as long as it took me to type them out and erase them, but they knew. It’s creepy. I can usually get away with reading a normal book instead of a textbook, but even that occasionally backfires.

I’m the last one to make it to the classroom, but when I get there no one is in the seat closest to the door. I cast a smile across the room as I sink into the chair, receiving a few timid smiles in reply. I give these kids a hard time, but really they’re not bad. They try in their own weird ways. I mean, like Felice had said last night, not many of them want to be seen with the ‘bad boy’, but it’s not like they avoid or dislike me. Even as the rebel, we grew up together. It’s like legitimately hating your brother.

I mean, some of them do, but not the majority so I’m ok with that.

Sometimes I feel like the troubled teen everyone is try to mother into being good—which, awkward—but for most of it I’m happy to reap the rewards and just continue being me. (Sometimes I’ll pay it back by taking the fall for some of them. Most days I’m heading to punishment anyway, so what’s one more thing) And of course, I’m the one everyone goes to when they’re feeling rebellious too, so that’s a thing. Happens maybe once or twice a week. I’m actually kinda curious if that number will rise or lower as we get closer to auction. 

The teacher startles when she comes in and my arms are the first things that she sees, almost dropping all of her books. A snarky comeback is on the tip of my tongue. Wanna figure out the standard deviation of each hit from the center of my arms? But I remember that I’m planning to be good today and keep my mouth shut. She recovers quickly enough, though her eyes frequently return to me as she sets up her desk. For some reason it feels worse when it’s a professor. Maybe because the kids can’t do anything, and she chooses not to.

Maybe because I’ve spent the last 9 years hating adults.

She manages to get a hold of herself by the time everything is set up, continuing yesterday’s discussion on inferential statistics and hypothesis testing. Wow, it’s way too early for this. Still, I promised I’d be a good dog today, sitting and barking on command, so I take my notes silently and work through the problems she gives us. It’s not too bad, this class has been worse.

Step, step, jingle, clack, jingle. Step, step, jingle, clack, jingle.

I’m focusing so hard on taking notes and not getting distracted that I don’t notice the distinct, well-known footsteps until they’re practically at the door. By then it’s such a shock that my throat drops fast enough that I nearly lose my pancakes. It was Him, the big boss man, head-honcho, holder of a million keys with the most confident steps I’d ever heard despite the cane. And he was coming our way.

Blood rushing through my ears dulled the teacher’s voice to the point that I could barely tell that she was speaking. I abandoned my notes, hands clasped together on top of the desk as fear fluttered around my stomach. I wasn’t alone. The room was silent, there were no clacking of keyboard keys, no dull thuds of fingers tracing across a touch screen. There was no movement out of the corner of my eye, barely any hint that anyone was alive.

In case you haven’t figured it out, this guy is a Big Deal. He’s the man behind the curtain, the puppet master, the director of the horror show that is our lives. You never see him do anything directly, in fact he’s barely seen at all (this will be my fourth time). The trainers, teachers, and scientists practically trip over themselves to do whatever he says, to follow his command. That’s why he’s so terrifying. He’s the one that scares the monsters.

(Well, ok I’m the only one who considers them monsters but you get the point.)

No one has ever seen his face. Nobody—not even me—dares to misbehave if he’s anywhere in the general area so our eyes are always respectfully bent. I’m paranoid so I haven’t seen anything above his kneecaps. Not as paranoid as the mind readers though, they won’t even dare to peek in on anyone’s minds to see what he looks like. It’s like he’s medusa and we fear that one look will petrify us into stone. Except he’s a man. And real. And probably doesn’t have snakes for hair. Like I said, no one’s ever looked so we don’t really know.

Step, step, jingle, clack, jingle… Step… step… jingle, clack, jingle.

Oh crap oh crap oh crap. He’s slowing down. Right in front of our door. Craaaaaaaaaaap. The teacher gave up talking, or maybe he’s close enough that she can’t pretend nothing’s happening any more.

“Sir,” Professor Math (they don’t bother remembering our names, why would I bother remembering theirs?) says respectively, but he doesn’t reply. He never replies. His voice is just as unknown as his face. Step, step, jingle, clack, jingle. Two steps and he’s in the room. Right next to my desk. Not moving. Why did I sit so close to the door again? Never again, I don’t care if I have two broken legs, I will crawl to the other side of the room. Now I’m sick to my stomach and I’m going to have to spend the next however-long-he’s-planning-to-stand-there minutes all tense, cause he’s in the room and it probably has nothing to do with me, but he’s right there and-

GUAH

He touches one of my arms and I flinch so hard it’s practically a jerk, almost sending me out of my seat. “Sorry Sir, sorry sorry.” I mumble, tensing rigidly still as I resume the position. He only gives a weighted hum in reply as he traces over a particularly bad spot of purple-green-black. That’s the most he ever does. Hum, I mean. He’s perfectly obeyed without having to say a single word. It’s incredible. In the recreation hall there’s serious debate about whether or not he can actually talk at all.

“Show me your leg.”

Worst. Day. Ever. Like, seriously, ever. That’s saying a lot for me. Ok, maybe the night I got kidnapped was a contender, today is right up there with it.

I move immediately, on autopilot. By the time my shock fades and his words compute my chair is already backed away from the table and my hands are wrapped around my pant leg.

Subconscious obedience is a sign of brainwashing, isn’t it?

Hands trembling, I begin to roll up the material around my ankle. The bruises don’t start until mid-calf, and there’s a few moments of terrible silence where there’s nothing to see. This sucks. It really, really sucks. I can’t even say something stupidly sarcastic like, ‘aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?’, not to him. Although I guess technically he’d bought me every meal I’d eaten for the past 10 years so…

This suuuuuuucks.

And crap, crap, crap, it’s getting harder and harder to bunch up the material. These pants weren’t made for this. I don’t think any pants were made for this. Ok, I think I can, ok no. It’s not going any higher than the knee. Maybe if I- nope.

My eyes flick to him to see his reaction, only glimpsing a shock of gray hair before remembering my place and tearing my eyes away. Still, he doesn’t seemed concerned with seeing the rest of my leg. He hums considering-ly as he studies the medley of bruises covering my shin. And I’m stuck here just waiting.

Wait, what do I do with my hands?

‘Mindless puppet ready to do master’s bidding’ pose (as I call it) or ‘respect’ pose (as they call it) when standing is to have the hands behind the back, grabbing one wrist with the opposite hand (the opposite may have been redundant. Ave you ever tried to grab the wrist of your same hand? Impossible). And other than in the rec room we’re never sitting down without some kind of table or desk in front of us, so when sitting we’re supposed to clasp our hands together on the table. But I’ve scooted out so far that to do that would be super awkward. I’d practically have to lean completely over him, which, no.

And I can’t put my hands behind my back. I’m in a chair. Try it sometime, you have to lean forward weirdly far and then you have a fist in your back and- no. It looks stupid and is uncomfortable.

Man, arms seem so awkward when you’re actually trying to think about them. Maybe I can just put my hands in my lap, as if it was a desk. Of course, by the time I finally figure this out he’s standing. With only a final hum, he leaves. The room remains silent, holding their breath, until his distinctive steps are far down the hall.

“Well then,” the teacher blusters awkwardly, “If you would all copy this chart into your notes, it shows…”

I push down my pants leg and pull my chair back up to the table as quickly as possible, but I still feel the eyes of everyone on my back. I don’t let go of the seat of my chair as I situate myself at the desk, gripping the plastic so tight that my fingers become white. I don’t bother with the chart. My hands would be shaking too hard anyways.

Professor Math tries valiantly for a few moments to return to the lesson, but it’s decidedly not happening. The room is stuck in the dead silence of students not even trying to pay attention. I can’t tell if its reality or paranoia, but I still feel the burn of everyone’s gaze on my back. Only my desire to protect the pancakes is keeping me from being sick right now. I swear, if one more thing happens even that won’t be enough.

It doesn’t take long for her to just give up and pass out a worksheet, though she does tell us we only have to do the top ten since the lesson wasn’t completed. I close my eyes and breathe deeply as a student stands to begin passing out the assignment.

It’s fine. It’s ok, I’ve faced worse, I know I have. Maybe nothing weirder, or more unbalancing, but definitely worse.

Then why am I so scared?

This is nothing, he didn’t hurt me, didn’t punish me, didn’t even scold me.

But he could keep me here. He might have come to see if they should put me up to auction or not. I’m going to be stuck here forever.

Don’t be stupid, whether or not I’m going to auction has nothing to do with my bruises.

But then what if-

It’s fine. It’s fine. Whatever it is I can handle it with a smile and a sarcastic comeback. It’s what they all expect. I can do this, I’ll be fine.

I open my eyes just before the volunteer gets to me and accept the sheet with a smile, as though nothing had happened. His face pales a bit but he forces a strained smile back before hurrying off, looking sick to his stomach. One does not simply smile after being visited by the boss man. It’s like throwing a party because you saw the boogeyman. By the end of lunch even more rumors will be flying around about me.

Lovely. Just what I’d always wanted.

Not.

Now it’s a good thing that I took so many notes earlier. The worksheet is just a matter of plugging different numbers into the same formula again and again. Number 1: .3515846548982875… wow that’s a lot of numbers. Maybe it would be a good idea to actually read the instructions. Using the formulas learned in class blah blah whatever, whatever, blah, two decimal places. Ok, .35.

Sorry about the freak out. Well, actually no I’m not. You’re the one in head, if I have to apologize for my own thoughts then sorry, this isn’t going to work out. It’s not me, it’s you, let’s not be friends, ect.

So, while I’m not sorry, I guess I could owe you an explanation. Not that it needs much. That was freaky. At least, to anyone here it is. And I can’t even properly react.

I don’t really have anything, nothing that can’t be taken away at a whim or that probably will be taken away after the auction. I only have my pride and my reputation.

Haha jk, I don’t have any pride.

So I do what I can to protect my reputation, keep everything internal even if that means talking to myself like a crazy person instead of just freaking out and getting it over with. I’m a big fan of ignoring problems until I’m laying catatonic in my bed at 2 A.M as my subconscious reminds me of every bad decision I’ve made in my life.

We all cope in different ways.

‘But that’s so unlike you’, you say. Shut up, we’ve known each other for less than a day and I was passed out for most of it.

Number 7: 28

28\. On a statistics problem. That is literally impossible. Ok, maybe I do need to do more than blindly follow the steps. See, if I had been ignoring the whole thing instead of explaining it to you, I wouldn’t have to redo all of these. I have created a new problem because I didn’t ignore the old one. It’s always nice to know that your usual coping methods are valid. Now go away, I’m trying to behave today. I guess back up to number 2, just to be safe. A teacher passed out 1,000 tests and the average score was 78% with a standard deviation of 6.2%. If…


	6. Uninterested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Short one this time, but next chapter should be up soon! Please let me know if you are still enjoying the story and what I could improve if not!

Wanna know how good I am at ignoring the problem until it goes away? By the time lunch rolls around the only thing on my mind is the hope that I was good enough to get a hot dog instead of my usual punishment sandwich (don’t ask). Nicole is at the table, eyeing me oddly. I’m preparing to ask when I lift the lid to my platter and everything else seems to slip away. Corn. Dogs. That’s right, corn dogs, the king of the hot dog kingdom, fried perfectly.

Beautiful.

I’m so concerned with this, the highest reward you can get on hot dog day, that I barely notice the stares compounding on me. Or, I’m ignoring them, whatever. Food.

Then a tray lands heavily next to me and Desmond is almost frantically falling into the seat. “Is it true that He actually came down and talked to you?”

Crispy sweet fried cornbread and flavorful meat of mysterious origin turned to ash in my mouth. It was nice while it lasted. Still, I forced myself to swallow the sawdust before nodding. “Yup.”

I turned back to my meal, this time dragging the corndog through a splotch of ketchup. Maybe that’ll help get in down my suddenly dry throat.

“What was it like?” Felice breathed, eyes bright and wide as Nicole nodded next to her. Chairs scratched and screeched around the room as people got as close to us as their tables allowed. The tickle of their gazes on the back of my neck turned into a harsh burn as I slowly chewed. The ketchup hadn’t helped.

“Terrifying.” I said shortly, hoping they would get the hint.

“What do you think it was about?” No such luck. Of course.

“I don’t know. Something about the bruises.” I bite the words out, my words laced with near-furious frustration, but other than a tittering of whisper and conversation my words did nothing.

“Maybe he was making sure you’re ok.” Nicole offered, her eyes blown wide. I doubt it. 

Luckily, I didn’t have to say anything because Felice was snorting and rolling her eyes.

“Yeah right. This is Him, The Boss, why would he care about a couple of bruises.”

It was more than a couple bruises, but whatever. I couldn’t care less if they gossip and guess among themselves as long as they leave me alone.

“I bet he was just making sure that he won’t look all gross and purple for auction.” Cyrus nearly yells from the table over. That was as good a reason as any I guess. They aren’t looking at me anymore, so I take the respite to eat a couple carrot sticks. I hate people watching me eat. I make weird faces.

Several different voices rise in disagreement. Ok, so maybe that wasn’t as good an idea as any, because now Cyrus has at least three different healers and Brainiacs explaining the intricate details behind the time, process, and stages of the bruise healing process. Zayne, who is probably the second biggest troublemaker in our year (which means he end up in night training biweekly) suddenly pops up at my shoulder, out of his seat and everything. “Hey, do you think it’s cause of Jerry?”

(In case you’re wondering, biweekly as in once every other week, not twice a week,)

I can feel a frown playing at my lips. “What about Jerry?”

I can see the others look at themselves in confusion out of the corner of my eye, and there are more than a few ‘whose Jerry’s.

“Well, he was getting fired today, wasn’t he?” And half the group goes ‘oh, that’s Jerry’. “I bet tonight’s dessert that he decided if he was going to go, he was going to take them down with him. Who cares about healing times? There’s no way they’re supposed to be doing this kinda stuff this close to auction.”

I feel a smirk starting to curl at my lips. Even if betting desserts was worth anything I wouldn’t take that bet. “That sounds like Jerry.”

“Yeah man,” he laughs, “Jerry hates the scientists. He always gets that look when they impose on his precious training time.”

I snort and hold up a fist for him to bump. Sometimes I forget how much I like Zayne, he get’s me. Why don’t we hang out more often? I almost yelp as an elbow digs into my bruised arm, turning to glare at Desmond who simply nods his head to where the overseers are always watching. Oh yeah, ever since the chair incident the overseers had started watching us like a hawk whenever we so much as blinked at one another. Which only stopped us from about 15% of the stuff we teamed up to pull (they could read minds, but as a telepath Zayne had near perfect control of his thoughts) but it didn’t give much leeway for casual hanging out. See, these people ruin everything. 

“You might wanna sit back down, the overseers are starting to look our way and I’m being a perfect angel today so you’re next in line. Can you imagine night training without me or Jerry?”

He gives an exaggerated shudder before rushing back to his table. His girlfriend Zuri casts a worried glance at the overseers before smiling sweetly at Zayne and nuzzling at his shoulder. She used to be third biggest troublemaker in class, but she’d mellowed down a bunch at the beginning of our last year when she realized that she was coming to her last days with Zayne. It hit her hard, and now she’s not only practically teacher’s pet but she hates me.

To be fair to her, I haven’t exactly done much to keep her boyfriend out of trouble. To be fair to me, I never do anything to keep people out of trouble, so he’s not exactly special. To be fair to Zayne, he’s been trying really hard to limit his mischief once she talked to him about it a few weeks ago. To be fair to everyone involved, it was probably best that I didn’t encourage him too much. It’s never fun having all the overseers focus on your grade. Besides, when too many people know about the prank it almost always gets back to the overseers so most of the time it ends up being all of the punishment with none of the fun. Not really worth it.

Unfortunately, Zayne leaving did nothing to stop the overflow of theories about His appearance, especially not after Desmond—and all the other nearby telepaths—gasped and shouted that He had also visited Tyson in class. At this point though, they aren’t really talking about me so I do what I can to let everything wash over my head.

I’m trying to just focus on enjoying my treat, trying to make everything else fade away in light of the lunch in front of me.

It doesn’t work. I don’t think corn dogs will ever taste like anything other than mud ever again.

Just my luck one of my worst days ever and I don’t even get the pleasure of acting out. Maybe I should quit trying.

Oh, ouch, ouch, elbow to the bruise, ok ow. No Desmond, its fine, don’t stop your argument on account of your poor wounded friend. I’m fine. Whatever. That answered that question though, there was no way I was going to get night training today. Time to suck it up. I could always scream my frustrations into my pillow before bed. It makes my roommates look at me weird, but if it works then it works.

Saved by the bell, the ringing calling for the youngest kids to start clearing out finally sounds and everyone blessedly shuts up and starts cramming their lunches in. I only have a pair of carrot sticks left and I munch on them calmly as everyone else frantically eats. Only 7 hours and 15 minutes until recreation time. I can do this.


	7. Uninspired

See, I bet you were expecting this chapter to begin with ‘I can’t do this’ because of how the last chapter ended, but ha! Jokes on you, I don’t need to rely on those cheap, overdone bits. Shame on you for underestimating me.

….Ok, now that that’s cleared up, I must admit that I may have my doubts about, well, “doing this”. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I mean, school was fine. Well, it sucked because it’s school and I’m here, but my behavior was fine. I was doing great; valedictorian levels of focus. At this point I’m practically teacher’s pet. (Ok not really, but I refrained from doing anything bad, which is close enough) But I can’t handle this “training”. If Jerry really was trying to get the scientists canned he did a pretty poor job of it because they’re all here and still just annoying as before. And apparently “intention” is still the name of the game. Now though, I swear, they aren’t even trying to be subtle. Today’s activities include getting the braniacs to create lasers—lasers, like spy villain lasers—one of them just a laser in general and other with the sole purpose of hurting me, and see which one—if any—works on me. I mean, sure this isn’t the first time I’ve been tested against the brainiac’s inventions (I’ve been here for 10 years, until the big ‘intention’ craze they had almost been running out of random crap to make me do. It had almost been getting boring) and they kinda work, kinda don’t. Like, it’s not like it’ll fall apart the instant I touch it, but their high-intensity listening devices are full of static when I speak and if their heat sensors are to be believed I have about half the body temperature of a normal human being. Normal heat sensors and listening devices, no problem. But if a super genius so much as edited the blueprints, boom, not gonna work.

One time they played with chemicals until they made knock out gas worthy of a comic book. I got kinda drowsy. Bottom line, their inventions acknowledge my existence just not as well as other people’s. Call me crazy, but that I don’t exactly find that reassuring when they’re talking about lasers. So, yeah, not sure how well “behaving” is going to go when I’m expected to sit here happily waiting for them to dismember me (or at least hurt me really really bad). I’m going to lose a limb then I’ll be stuck here forever and- oh crap, what is it now.

The scientists freeze as the distinct sound of four inch heels sound with the determined and ominous steps of a horror movie, heralding the appearance of Ms. Marshall. The woman doesn’t bother to glance around the room as she enters, bright red lips pursed in annoyance and the tablet case/ clipboard that’s practically a permanent fixture brandished like a weapon in her bright red talons. Marshall sighting aren’t quite as rare as Him sightings, but they aren’t exactly common. I feel like seeing both of them in one day is a bad omen. I mean, it certainly can’t be anything good. She’s one of His assistants, and absolutely terrifying. A Vires herself—mind reader—she somehow got on His good side enough as a student here that she became His face in the intricate working of the… school? At least, where the faculty is concerned. And, as usual, she is on a warpath.

I let myself risk taking another couple of steps closer so that I’m in hearing distance as she strides up to the waiting scientists. No way am I missing this.

“Would any of you care to give me an answer as to why you’re ignoring the experiment-request denial?” She demands, turning the tablet around and practically bashing it in the face of the nearest scientist. I’m still too far to read it, but even so I can see the big blur of red across the screen. She doesn’t give them time to verbalize an answer, getting everything that she needs from reading their minds. “Oh, so just because it never happened before you think that you can ignore standard protocol? Wrong answer. That’s how lab accidents happen. This experiment was denied.”

Again, she speaks before they can say anything in answer. “Why? You really have to ask why He would be opposed high powered weapons being aimed at one of the assets for sale this year when you yourself have no clue what would happen.” A slight pause. “Yes, I am well aware of your arguments against selling him. They would be much more compelling if any of your experiments amounted to anything other than ‘nothing works on him and he can’t control it. There are no noticeable limitations. We have no clue why.’ Results get funding, failures mean we need other ways to achieve income.” Pause, a frustrated huff. “That would be a better point if this wasn’t, as you already pointed out, the first time we refused your experiment proposal. What’s your excuse for the past 2,769 experiments?” A pause. “Exactly.”

“Obviously it’s imperative that you continue experimenting. But. Not. With. Lasers.” Less than a moment’s pause. “I don’t care, have them shoot him with paint ball guns for all I care.” There isn’t even a pause before she’s tapping away on her tablet. “There, paintball gun approved. Congratulations, now get to work.

This time a scientist finds the time to speak before she has the time to steamroll through. “Paint ball guns would be far too simplistic for people of their mental caliber. For the experiment to be a success we need at least some level of challenge for the inventors and-“

“Then make a special paintball gun. For crying out loud we hired you because you were supposed to be intelligent. Make a that shoots in perfect tie dye, or in a smiley face, or the Mona Lisa- I don’t care. That “challenging” enough for you?” Silence. “Good. Now hurry up, you’re not getting extra time for this. Don’t skip protocol again. This is your last warning.”

The woman abruptly turns, only looking back once to smirk at scientist number 6. “Back at you.”

The scientists immediately gasps and turns bright red to the tips of her ears. Oooh, busted. That was rule number one, don’t call the mind readers anything in your mind you wouldn’t say to their face. Brunette woman might not be here much longer after all. The scientists exchange glares and grumpy frowns (I won’t even give them enough credit to call them disgruntled. They were pouting like a toddler being told they couldn’t draw on the walls) before finally moving, calling for the lackeys to replace the materials they had in place to make lasers and exchange it for stuff that would be useful for paint guns.

They lead me back to where I had been standing—right in front of a stupid bulls-eye—before turning back to the two geniuses to tell them the change in plans. I don’t bother to move, not caring about hearing a repeat of the exact same instructions that they gave five minutes ago, the words burned into mind with fear back when they were talking about lasers.

To Grant: You are to make a laser paintball gun that shoots tie dye.

To Millen: You are to make the same thing, but your attention should be wholly focused on making a gun to cover him in tie dye. Think of him the entire time, the only reason why you are making this is to target him. Got it?

The two nod, and I get the lovely job of waiting here for half an hour as they make the plans and start building. At least it’s better than actually having to move, I guess. Millen, I notice, is a lot slower than Grant, even though normally they’re about equal and Grant is even a few years younger than him. Millen’s true talents lie is actually working with his hands and building though, so despite finishing the blueprints later, the two are done assembling the guns at almost the exact same time. They bring Grant up to the shooting line first, the boy immediately falling into the even, professional shooting stance ingrained in all of us through countless years of training.

Beard-scientist nods at the kid and casts a glare at me, daring me to move. Yeah, no. I’m not stupid. I just tuck my arms behind my back to protect them and settle so that my mid chest is bullseye and hoping that the kid had shooting practice recently. I’d really rather not lose an eye. Honestly, you’d think a business as big as this would be able to shell out five bucks for some goggles.

(Ok I have no clue how much goggles cost, but they can’t be that much right?)

This is going to suck, but then what else is new.

Well ok, a lot of new stuff happened today, but my point stands.

There’s a soft puff of sound as the gun shoots then- oh wow that smarts. Not as bad as a laser, but yeah ow. And… that is not a tie die. Very much not a tie die. It’s much less… hippie and more two big splotches of paint completely separate. Oh great, I’m going to have to walk around all day looking like I tripped in a home improvement store.

Grant is glaring at me or, more accurately, at my now pink and blue chest. Lovely color choice, I look like a stick of cotton candy. The genius, not particularly known for his cool head, nearly clobbers Millen over the head with his gun as he stalks back to the table to glare at his blueprints. Millen just looks awkwardly between him, me, and the scientists. (Guess which one tried to punch me that one time.) They’re barely playing Millen any attention though, too busy watching Grant have a small meltdown when he can’t find any problems in his calculations. Finally Scientist 4 walks over to look over the schematics behind him. Like that would do any good, if Grant can’t find the problem there’s no way that this sadistic idiot could. Grant evidently agrees because he practically growls at the man looking over his shoulder.

Wow, someone’s eager to get punishment.

Scientist brunette-without-goatee doesn’t make a comment (but he noticed. He had to have noticed, there is NO WAY that this kid can get away with this when I can’t get away with an eye roll), instead he simply picks up the gun himself. Of course they’d want to do this themselves, seeing me get shot isn’t enough they want to be the ones holding the gun, of course. (By the way, you guessed wrong, it was Millen. Grants two years younger, I actually haven’t worked with him yet before. Which probably explains the hissy fit)

I force my arms tighter behind my back and close my eyes, gritting my teeth and tightly clenching my jaw. I wonder how many colors I’ll be by the end of this? I mean, I already have plenty black and blue.

(Ha! Get it? Causes the bruises are black and blue! Did you- yeah you got it.)

Once more a puff of air. Oh wow that sma- oh wait. No, it didn’t. I didn’t feel anything. Is he that bad a shot? Ok, everyone else is talking like something impressive just happened, so probably not.

Maybe I should just open my eyes and actually see what happened. Yeah, that’s probably a better plan.

My eyes are nearly half-lidded when the now-familiar sound of a puff of air prompts me to slam them shut just in time for—oop yup. There’s the smarting. Grant lets out a shocked “What the-” And that probably means it’s safe to open my eyes. Oh good, that one was orange and red. This is just looking better and better. Except this time the target next to me is full of a vibrant perfect spiral.

“Weapon A working as expected. Functions accurate until faced with subject.”

“Woah…” Grant breathes and Scientist blonde-woman turns to him with a sharp look of disapproval.

“You would do well not to leave your post until ordered in the future. This will be counted as insubordination.” Oh SNAP! Haha, I knew they weren’t ignoring it.

Kid’s face goes bright red and he bows his head in apology. I mean, I’m not happy that he got in trouble, but I have a hard time feeling bad for him when he’d have been just as upset if it was his laser that had failed. I am wondering why I hadn’t ever seen him in night training before with a temper like that, but whatever. They always favor the geniuses. And no that isn’t the bitterness talking, it’s fact.

And bitterness.

“Weapon B, commence.”

My eyes slam shut instinctually by now, closing me into an anticipatory darkness that seems to stretch and linger, but there is no sound. No burst of sharp pain. There’s nothing. Finally a sound, but it isn’t a puff of air or the sound of a shot. It’s one of the women scientists. “Switch targets.”

I open my eyes in time to see Millen pull the barrel of his weapon away from me to point it at the target. He’s pulling the trigger frantically, his face looking more and more panicked, but—as though to make a point of being better behaved than Grant—he continues to try and shoot until given the ok to stop. The genius is at the table almost immediately, looking over the blueprints Grant is already surveying. By the time the two have spent 10 minutes arguing and dismantling the gun—the argument basically boiling down to ‘we have no clue why this isn’t working’—the scientists have come up with a passable alternative for experiment number 2.

I catch sight of scientist 4’s tablet as he walks past: 2:53. Only an hour and seven minutes left. My legs hurt. It’s going to be a long day. Hey, but next we have special skills focus, which is pretty much the only time of the day I actually always enjoy. Ok, well usually. As long as I do what I normally do I always enjoy it, but not so much when they change things up. Then I end up practicing being a nanny or a secretary or, on one memorable occasion, a caddy. I don’t tend to like it when they switch stuff up. There’s a schedule here, if you go off it then it usually means you messed up. Badly. Which means my schedule isn’t as constant as it could be, but still. Small comforts, small comforts.

“Ready Weapon C.” 6 calls and I close my eyes, not even bothering to see what they’re shooting at me. After all, it won’t change anything. I can’t wait to get out of here.

Panic flows through me as I suddenly find my air saturated with thick chemicals and I instinctively cough, eyes flying open to find myself in a puff of blue-grey smoke. Only about 45 minutes left.


End file.
